The Bounty Hunter
by AliceJaxon
Summary: Kat Mitchell is is a failed lingerie buyer, newly turned bond agent. Her first job is to find Johnny Mancuso, a policeman/murder suspect on the run and her one-time high school sweetheart. How hard can it be, when he's a mortal and she has powers up her sleeve? Apparently a lot harder than it looks.


**AN: This is my first story, it's about one of Paige and Henry's daughters, Katherine Mitchell. Chris is also a major character in this story. The other family members will probably appear but I don't want to make any promises yet. Please leave a review letting me know what you think!**

There are some men who enter a woman's life and screw it up forever. Johnny Mancuso did this to me – not forever, but periodically.

Johnny and I were both born and raised in a blue-collar chunk of the San Francisco Bay Area between Chinatown and Little Italy. It was called the Hills by locals in a mockery of the Beverly Hills down in LA, which we certainly weren't. Houses were narrow and Victorian. Yards were big. Cars were American. The people were mostly of Chinese and Italian descent, with enough Hungarian and German thrown in to offset inbreeding. It was a good place to buy fried rice or calzones and play the numbers. And, if you had to live in the Hills anyway, it was a good place to raise a family.

When I was a kid I didn't ordinarily play with Johnny Mancuso. He lived two blocks over and was two years older. "Stay away from those Mancuso boys," my mother had warned me. "They're wild. I hear stories about the things they do to girls when they get them alone."

"What kind of things?" I'd eagerly asked.

"You don't want to know," my mother had answered. "Terrible things. Things that aren't nice."

From that moment on I had viewed Johnny Mancuso with a combination of terror and curiosity that bordered on awe. Two weeks later, at the age of six, with quaking knees and a squishy stomach, I followed Johnny into his father's garage with the promise of learning a new game.

The Mancuso garage hunkered detached and snubbed at the edge of their lot. It was a sorry affair, lit by a single shaft of light filtering through a grime-coated window. Its air was stagnant, smelling of corner must, discarded tires, and jugs of used motor oil. Never destined to house the Mancuso cars, the garage served other purposes. Old Man Mancuso used the garage to take his belt to his sons, his sons used the garage to take their hands to themselves, and Johnny Mancuso took me, Katherine Mitchell, to the garage to play train.

"What's the name of this game?" I'd asked Johnny.

"Choo-choo," he'd said, down on his hands and knees, crawling between my legs, his head trapped under my short pink skirt. "You're the tunnel, and I'm the train."

I suppose this tells something about my personality. That I'm not especially good at taking advice. Or that I was born with an overload of curiosity. I was always the "bad" twin. Or maybe it's about rebellion or boredom or fate. At any rate, it was a one-shot deal and darn disappointing, since I'd only gotten to be the tunnel, and I'd really wanted to be the train.

Ten years later, Johnny Mancuso was still living two blocks over. He'd grown up big and bad, with eyes like black fire one minute and melt-in-your-mouth chocolate the next. He had an eagle tattooed on his chest, a tight-assed, narrow-hipped swagger, and a reputation for having fast hands and clever fingers.

My best friend, Mary Grace Magyar, said she heard he had a tongue like a lizard.

"Holy cow," I'd answered, "what's that supposed to mean?"

"Just don't let him get you alone or you'll find out. Once he gets you alone… that's it. You're done for."

I hadn't seen much of Johnny since the train episode. I supposed he'd enlarged his repertoire of sexual exploration. I opened my eyes wide and leaned closer to Mary Grace, hoping for the worst. "You aren't talking about rape, are you?"

"I'm talking about lust! If he wants you, you're doomed. The guy is irresistible."

Aside from being fingered at the age of six by the aforementioned Lizard Tongue, I was untouched. I was saving myself for marriage, or at least for college. "I'm a virgin," I said, as if this was news. "I'm sure he doesn't mess with virgins."

"He specializes in virgins! The brush of his fingertips turns virgins into slobbering mush."

Two weeks later Johnny Mancuso came into the bakery where I worked every day after school, The Rolling Pin, on Mariposa. He bought a chocolate chip cannoli, told me he'd joined the navy, and charmed the pants off me four minutes after closing, on the floor of The Rolling Pin, behind the case filled with chocolate éclairs.

The next time I saw him, I was three years older. I was on my way to the mall, driving my father's Buick when I spotted Mancuso standing in front of Gabrielli's Meat Market. I gunned the engine, jumped the curb, and clipped Johnny from behind, bouncing him off the front right fender. I stopped the car and got out to assess the damage. "Anything broken?"

He was sprawled on the pavement, looking up my skirt. "My leg."

"Good," I said. Then I turned on my heel, got into the Buick, and drove to the mall.

I attribute the incident to temporary insanity, and in my own defense, I'd like to say I haven't run over anyone since.

* * *

During winter months, cool breezes curled their way up Mariposa, and the sun shone on the plate-glass windows in the storefronts. During summer months, the windy, foggy mornings gave way to warm afternoons with the air sitting still and gauzy. It shimmered over cool cement and the clean smells from the stores wafted over the road. I figured there was no greater place to live than San Francisco.

This afternoon I'd decided to ignore the slight chill in the August air and go, convertible top down, in my Mazda Miata. There were tiny goose bumps the length of my arms, I was singing along to the Beatles, my long dark brown hair was whipping around my face in a frenzy of curls, my ever vigilant hazel eyes were coolly hidden behind my Oakleys, and my foot rested heavy on the gas pedal.

It was Sunday, and I had a date with a pot roast at my parents' house. I stopped for a light and checked my rearview mirror, swearing when I saw Oliver Gaertner two car lengths back in a tan sedan. I thunked my forehead on the steering wheel. "Damn." I'd gone to high school with Gaertner. He was a maggot then, and he was a maggot now. Unfortunately, he was a maggot with a just cause. I was behind on my Miata payments, and Gaertner worked for the repo company.

Six months ago, when I'd bought the car, I'd been looking good, with a nice apartment and season tickets to the 49ers. And then _bam!_ I got laid off. No money. No more A-1 credit rating.

I rechecked the mirror, set my teeth, and yanked up the emergency brake. Oliver was like smoke. When you tried to grab him, he evaporated, so I wasn't about to waste this one last opportunity to bargain. I hauled myself out of my car, apologized to the man caught between us, and stalked back to Gaertner.

"Kat Mitchell," Gaertner said, full of joy and faux surprise. "What a treat."

I leaned two hands on the roof and looked through the open window at him. "Oliver, I'm going to my parents' house for dinner. You wouldn't snatch my car while I was at my parent's house would you? I mean, that would be really low, Oliver."

"I'm a pretty low guy, Kat. That's why I've got this neat job. I'm capable of most anything."

The light changed, and the driver behind Oliver leaned on his horn.

"Maybe we can make a deal," I said to Gaertner.

"Does this deal involve you getting naked?"

I had a vision of grabbing his nose and twisting it Three Stooges style until he squealed like a pig. Problem was, it'd involve touching him. Better to go with a more restrained approach. "Let me keep the car tonight, and I'll drive it to the lot first thing tomorrow morning."

"No way," Gaertner said. "You're damn sneaky." That would be my liberal use of my powers that totally weren't used for personal gain, I had to save my car. "I've been chasing after this car for five days."

"So, one more won't matter."

"I'd expect you to be grateful, you know what I mean?"

I almost gagged. "Forget it. Take the car. In fact, you could take it right now. I'll walk to my parents'."

Gaertner's eyes were locked halfway down my chest. I'm a 32B. Respectable, but far from overwhelming on my 5' 4" frame. I was wearing black spandex shorts and an oversized football jersey. Not what you would call a seductive outfit, but Oliver was ogling anyway.

His smile widened enough to show he was missing a molar. "I guess I could wait for tomorrow. After all, we _did_ go to high school together."

"Uh huh." It was the best I could do.

Five minutes later I turned off Mariposa onto Hilldale. Two blocks to my parents' house, and I could feel familial obligation sucking at me, pulling me into the heart of the Hills. This was a community of extended families (although most of my own extended family lived in downtown San Francisco and the upscale suburbs, not this little blue-collar chunk.) There was safety here, along with love, and stability, and the comfort of ritual. The clock on the dash told me I was seven minutes late, and the urge to scream told me I was home.

I parked at the curb and looked at the narrow three-story Victorian with its stained white wood porch and awnings. It was pale yellow sliding, with a white shingle roof, just as it had been for thirty years. Snowball bushes flanked either side of the wooden stoop, and red geraniums had been evenly spaced the length of the porch. It was basically a flat. Formal and informal living rooms in front, dining room in the middle, kitchen at the rear. Four bedrooms and two baths upstairs, with an attic the length of the house above that. It was a long, narrow house crammed with kitchen smells and too much furniture, comfortable with its lot in life.

It stood on the corner of Hilldale and Bluebird, so had only one neighbor, Mrs. Cysyk, whose house was positioned on the edge of the lot, about two feet from the edge of my parents'. She was living on social security and could only afford the cheap, bad-quality paint colors, and had painted her sliding lime green.

My mother was at the open screen door. Both my brother and sister had gotten out of San Francisco as soon as they could. As the only child left, I sometimes felt I had the responsibility of all three of us. "Kat," she called. "What are you doing sitting out there in your car? You're late for dinner. Your dad and Gran and I are hungry."

According to my aunts, neither my mom or my dad were much use in the kitchen before they got married. But my mom turned her talent for potions into a talent for cooking, and my dad discovered a love of baking. For as long as I can remember we've had home-cooked meals and fresh brownies in my house.

Grandma Mach stood two feet back from my mother. She wasn't really my grandmother, she was my dad's biological aunt. She appeared in our lives when I was 15, having tracked down her nephew to give him his inheritance from his birth mother when she died. She ended up staying in touch with our family. Two years ago, when Grandpa Mach's fat clogged arteries finally gave out, my mother invited Gran to stay with them until she got back on her feet. She hasn't moved out yet. I think she liked the company, but I can tell my Dad wishes he and Mom had the house to themselves again.

"I gotta get me a pair of those," Gran said, eyeballing my shorts. "I've still got pretty good legs, you know." She raised her skirt and looked down at her knees. "What do you think? Do you think I'd look good in them biker things?"

Gran had knees like doorknobs. She'd been a beauty in her time, but the years had turned her slack-skinned and spindle-boned. Still, if she wanted to wear biker shorts, I thought she should go for it. The way I saw it, that was one of the many advantages to getting old – no one questioned their sanity.

My father gave a grunt of disgust from the kitchen, where he was carving the meat. "Biker's shorts," he muttered.

I remember him telling me about a dog he'd had in one of his foster homes as a kid. The story goes that this dog was the ugliest, oldest, most pea-brained dog ever. The dog was incontinent, dribbling urine wherever it went. Its teeth were rotted in its mouth, its hips were fused solid with arthritis, and huge fatty tumors lumped under its hide. One day Dad's foster father took the dog out behind the garage and shot it. I suspected there were times when my father fantasized a similar ending for Gran. Don't get me wrong, he loved her, but not when she was living with him and my mom.

"Well I like the shorts," my mother said to me, bringing green beans and onions to the table. "It's important to have your own personal style. The key to happiness is being comfortable in your skin."

"Yeah, and you'll definitely get a man showing your legs off like that!" Gran piped in.

"I don't want a man. I had one, and I didn't like it."

"That's because your husband was a horse's behind," Gran said.

I agreed. My ex-husband had been a horse's behind. Especially when I'd caught him on the dining room table with Joy Brinkerhoff, who, believe me, was certainly _not_ a joy to be around.

"I hear Lucy Baker's son is separated from his wife," my mother said. "You remember him? Ryan Baker?"

I knew where she was heading, and I didn't want to go there. "I'm not going out with Ryan Baker," I told her. "Don't even think about it."

"So what's wrong with Ryan Baker?"

Ryan Baker was a butcher. He was balding, and he was fat, and I suppose I was being a snob about the whole thing, but I found it hard to think in romantic terms about a man who spent his days stuffing giblets up chicken butts. "I don't want to talk about Ryan," I said. "There's something I need to tell you. I have some bad news…"

I'd been dreading this and had put it off as long as possible.

Gran clapped a hand to her mouth. "You found a lump in your breast!"

No one in our family had ever found a lump in their breast, or even gotten cancer at all, but Gran was ever watchful. "My breast is fine. The problem is with my job."

"What about your job?" This from my father.

"I don't have one. I got laid off."

"Laid off!" my mother said with a sharp inhale. "How could that happen? It was such a good job. You loved that job!"

I'd been a discount lingerie buyer for C. C. Xhang, and I'd worked on Market Street, which is not exactly the golden spot of the Golden State. In truth, it had been my mother who had loved the job, imagining it to be glamorous when in reality I'd mostly haggled over the cost of full-fashion nylon underpants. C. C. Xhang wasn't exactly Victoria's Secret.

"I wouldn't worry," my mother said. "There's always work for lingerie buyers.

"There's _no _work for lingerie buyers." Especially ones who worked for C. C. Xhang. Having held a salaried position with C. C. Xhang made me as appealing as a leper. C. C. Xhang had skimped on the palm greasing this winter, and as a result its mafia affiliations were made public. The C.E.O. was indicted for illegal business practices, C. C. Xhang sold out to Macy's, and, through no fault of my own, I was caught in the house-cleaning sweep. "I've been out of work for six months."

"Six months! And I didn't know? Your own mother didn't know you were out on the streets?"

"Mom, stop being dramatic. I'm not out on the streets. I've been doing temp work. You know, filing and stuff." And steadily sliding downhill. I was registered with every search firm in the greater San Francisco area, and I religiously read the want ads. I wasn't being all that choosy, drawing the line at telephone soliciting and kennel attendant, but my future didn't look great. I was overqualified for entry level, and I lacked experience in management.

My mother had gone through a string of temp jobs before settling on working at Magic School. My father had worked as a parole officer for forty years, retiring last May. Now he drove a cab part-time. Neither of them had any recent experience with unemployment.

"I saw your cousin Chris yesterday," Dad said. "He's looking for someone to do the filing. You should give him a call."

Just the career move I'd been hoping for – filing for Chris. It's not that I don't like Chris – he's my cousin and I love him. It's just that I don't want to work for him. Chris was neurotic and paranoid and had OCD: all the makings of a horrible boss. "What does he pay?" I asked.

My father shrugged. "Gotta be at least minimum wage."

Wonderful. The perfect position for someone already in the depths of despair. Rotten boss, rotten job, rotten pay. The possibilities for feeling sorry for myself would be endless.

"And the best part is that it's close," my mother said. "You can come home every day for lunch."  
I nodded numbly, thinking I'd sooner stick a needle in my eye.

* * *

Sunlight slanted through the crack in my bedroom curtains and the digital display on my clock radio flashed bright red numbers, telling me it was nine o'clock. The day had started without me.

I rolled out of bed on a sigh and shuffled into the bathroom. When I was done in the bathroom, I shuffled into the kitchen and stood in front of the refrigerator, hoping the refrigerator fairies had visited during the night. I opened the door and stared at the empty shelves, noting that food hadn't magically cloned itself from the smudges in the butter keeper and the shriveled lettuce leaves in the vegetable drawer. Half a jar of mayo, a bottle of beer, whole-wheat bread covered with blue mold, a head of iceberg lettuce, shrink-wrapped in brown slime and plastic, and a box of hamster nuggets stood between me and starvation. I wondered if nine in the morning was too early to drink beer. Of course in Moscow it would be four in the afternoon. Good enough.

I drank half the beer and grimly approached the living room window. I pulled the curtains and stared down at the parking lot. My Miata was gone. Oliver had hit early. No surprise, but still, it lodged painfully in the middle of my throat. I was now officially a deadbeat.

And if that wasn't enough, I'd weakened halfway through dessert and told my parents I'd go see Chris.

I dragged myself into the shower and stumbled out a half hour later after an exhausted crying jag. I stuffed myself into pantyhose and a suit and was ready to do my daughterly duty.

My hamster, Jazz, was still asleep in his soup can in his cage on the kitchen counter. I dropped a few hamster nuggets into his bowl and made some kissy sounds. Jazz opened his black eyes and blinked. He twitched his whiskers, gave a good sniff, and rejected the nuggets. I couldn't blame him. I'd tried them for breakfast yesterday and hadn't been impressed.

I locked up the apartment and walked three blocks down St. Peter to Red Ribbon Used Cars. There were exactly zero cars I could afford, so I decided to forgo purchasing a car and found myself an out of the way corner to orb to Chris' place of business.

Technically I wasn't supposed to use my powers for personal gain, but I figured the Powers That Be would look the other way in this instance. I was only _orbing,_ and that wasn't even a witchy power. Plus Mom is a Charmed One, and they hated to piss Mom and her sisters off.

I materialized in another out of the way alley around the corner from Chris' building. I said a short prayer not to be spotted by anyone I knew, and scuttled the short distance to the storefront office. The blue and white sign over the door read "Christopher Halliwell Bail Bonding Company." In smaller letters it advertised twenty-four-hour nationwide service. Conveniently located between TLC Dry Cleaners and Faabri's Deli, Christopher Halliwell catered to the family trade – domestic disturbances, disorderlies, auto theft, DWI, and shoplifting. The office was small and generic, consisting of two rooms with cheap walnut paneling on the walls and rust-colored carpet on the floor. An ugly modern couch upholstered in brown leather pressed against one wall of the reception area, and a white and gray metal desk with a phone and computer occupied the far corner.

Chris' secretary sat behind the desk, her head bent in concentration, picking her way through a stack of files. "Yeah?"

"I'm Katherine Mitchell. I've come to see my cousin, Chris."

"Kat Mitchell!" Her head came up. "I'm Amber Russell. You went to school with my little sister Charlotte. I didn't know you and Chris were related. Oh jeez, I hope you don't have to make bail."

I recognized her now. She was an older version of Charlie. Thicker in the waist, heavier in the face. She had lots of teased red hair, flawless alabaster skin, and a smattering of freckles across her nose.

"Yeah, he's my mom's sisters' kid. Different last names. But the only thing I have to make is money," I said to Amber. "I hear Chris needs someone to do filing."

"We just filled that job, and between you and me, you didn't miss anything. It was a crummy job. Paid minimum wage, and you had to spend all day listening to Chris and his insane conspiracy theories. My feeling is, if you're going to be spending that much time listening to crazy-talk, you could find something that pays better."

"Last time I listened to Chris' theories was Christmas. He's an odd one but his parents put up with so much. Who knows why?"

"Listen, if you really need a job, why don't you get Chris to let you do skip tracing? There's good money in it."

"How much money?"

"Ten percent of the bond." Amber pulled a file from her top drawer. "We got this one in yesterday. Bail was set at $100,000, and he didn't show up for a court appearance. If you could find him and bring him in, you'd get $10,000."

I put a hand to the desk to steady myself. "Ten thousand dollars for finding one guy? What's the catch?"

"Sometimes they don't want to be found, and they shoot at you. But that hardly ever happens." Amber leafed through the file. "The guy who came in yesterday is local. Martin Bessell started tracking him down, so some of the prelim work is already done. You've got pictures and everything."

"What happened to Martin Bessell?"

"Busted appendix. Happened at 11:30 last night. He's in St. Paul with a drain in his side and a tube up his nose."

I didn't want to wish Martin Bessell any misfortune, but I was starting to get excited about the prospect of stepping into his shoes. The money was tempting, and the job title had a certain reputation. On the other hand, catching fugitives sounded scary, and I was a certifiable coward when it came to risking my body parts. On the _other_ other hand, I was a witch. I could orb myself out of any danger and put up an orb shield around myself. And if I did happen to get hurt, Mom could heal it for me. As long as I could get to her in time.

"My guess is, it wouldn't be hard to find this guy," Amber said. "You could go talk to his mother. And if it gets hairy, you could back out. What have you got to lose?"

Only my life. But, the $10,000 was pretty appealing. I could pay off my creditors and straighten my life out. "Okay," I said. "I'll do it."

"You have to talk to Chris first." Amber swiveled her chair toward Chris' office door. "Hey Chris!" she yelled. "You got business out here."

Chris was 32, 6'1", and had the slim, muscled body of a runner. He wore ratty old tennis shoes, liked conspiracy theories and pretty women, and drove a white convertible Audi A5.

"Kat here wants to do some skip tracing," Amber said to Chris.

He looked me over, and then ordered me into his office. When he was sitting at his desk and I was in the uncomfortable plastic chair in front of it he started talking. "What's this about Kat? I thought you had a job."

"Well I might have gotten laid off. Six months ago. And I need a job now. Dad said to come talk to you about filing but then Amber said the position was filled. Let me try skip tracing! How hard can it be? They're all just mortals. I have my powers to protect me."

"I'm not worried about you; I know you can take care of yourself. But most of my agents used to be in security. And you have to know something about law enforcement so you know the legal way to apprehend criminals. And how are you going to find them? The worlds a big place, and you get lost on the way to the bathroom."

Oh my God, that was one time. I was drunk and it was dark. "I can learn about law enforcement Chris! And I need the job now. How do you think Aunt Piper would like it if you left your own cousin without a job?"

Chris rolled his eyes and hauled himself out of his chair and into the rest of the office. "Fine. Just don't make me regret this. Amber, give her a few civil cases to get her feet wet."

Uh-uh. I want big money. "I want this one," I said, pointing to the file on Amber's desk. "I want the $10,000 one."

"Forget it. It's a murder. I should never have posted bail, but I used to date his sister and I felt sorry for his mother. Trust me, you don't need this kind of trouble."

"I need the money, Chris. Give me a chance at bringing him in."

"When hell freezes over," Chris said. "I don't get this guy back, I'm in the hole for a hundred grand. I'm not sending an amateur after him."

Amber rolled her eyes at me. "You'd think it was out of his pocket. He's owned by an insurance company. It's no big deal."

"So give me a week, Chris," I said. "If I don't get him in a week, you can turn it over to someone else."

He didn't say anything. He just pressed his lips together until they turned white, and I knew I had him. "Who am I looking for?" I asked.

Chris handed me the file. "Johnny Mancuso."

My heart flipped in my chest. I knew Johnny had been involved in a homicide. It had been big news in the Hills, and details of the shooting had been splashed across the front page of the Bay Mirror. VICE COP KILLS UNARMED MAN. That had been over a month ago, and other, more important, issues (like the exact amount of the lottery) had replaced talk of Johnny Mancuso. In the absence of more information, I'd assumed the shooting had been in the line of duty. I hadn't realized Johnny had been charged with murder.

The reaction wasn't lost to Chris. "From the look on your face, I'd say you know him."

I nodded. "Sold him a cannoli when I was in high school."

Amber grunted. "Honey, half of all the women in San Francisco have sold him their cannoli."


End file.
